The war that was and is and maybe ever shall be.

It began with a mouse.

This particular mouse was charming and delightful and decorative. Its head fit over the handle of a plunger and it concealed the plunger, as well as several rolls of toilet paper. It arrived from Grandma Airgood's house after she moved into a smaller residence.

Little did we know that it was only the beginning of the great bathroom wars.

In the house in which I grew up it was made quite clear by our choice of toilet paper that someone in the house had lived through the great depression. It seems that our toilet paper was made out of recycled paper: specifically old sears catalogs and sandpaper. I'm the only American who seems impressed by how soft and fluffy the Soviet era newsprint toilet paper is in Russia.

This was but a small part of our bathroom's theme. The theme was nautical, really. Nautical in the sense that if it didn't belong in a navy war ship's bathroom - it didn't belong in ours. Our bathroom was so sterile one could have performed surgery on any counter top. The decorations amounted to the towels on the back of the door and soaps that changed colors with whatever hotel we had stayed in last.

At grandma Airgood's house they used the softest, most fluffy toilet paper known to man. Only 8 sheets fit on a standard roll. Layers of moisturizer and skin softener were cleverly folded into each blanket of toilet paper. Being in their bathroom was like being in a cocoon. Every surface was soft and snuggly.

Soon after both of his parents were dead, my father decided that he needed a bathroom exactly like the one in the house where he had grown up. He claimed the downstairs bathroom and began subtly making changes.

First he bought a squishy toilet seat. When one is accustomed to a toilet seat more fitting of Auschwitz, a plush toilet seat is a bizarre addition. Mother's motto was "If it isn't cold to sit on, it doesn't belong in our house." This was soon topped by a yarn-knit toilet seat cover and floor wrap around. We all waited in anticipation for the doily and accompanying Barbie (in a hand-knit formal ball gown) that had once sat upon the back of the throne at Grandma and Grandpa Airgood's house - but apparently they were out of stock at Wal-mart.

When he covered the walls with the Formica of his childhood and bought a sink support stand for a sink that didn't need supporting we all knew that the battle was coming to a head. It was so bizarre to see my father as a decorator - to watch him meticulously pick out curtains. He even built the window to be smaller than it was - and it seems that the only octagonal window in the neighborhood belongs to our house now.

Like the detailed Model-T plastic toys he had built as a child - he had created an exact replica of the bathroom of his childhood. Right down to the decorative soaps.

Dad made several attempts to convert the upstairs bathroom - but mom wouldn't budge. The first several comfy toilet seats installed in the upstairs bathroom mysteriously cracked. Like an emo middle schooler, she kept blaming the cat even though it was much too straight to have been done by a claw.

Like some infamous Koreas, the war is at a standstill. A shot hasn't been fired for several years - but the innocent victims live in fear. What if Wal-mart runs a special on plastic cup dispensers and Disney-themed paper cups? What if a wicker/marble hamper becomes available on Ebay?